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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229296">a rock on top of the sand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/schrodingers_zombie/pseuds/schrodingers_zombie'>schrodingers_zombie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anger, F/F, Pre-Season/Series 04, Slaughter Avatar Melanie King, coma era, i mean it is but it's not... like... successful?, me a few weeks ago: oh i want to write some cute wtgfs content, me finishing this: wait no oops that's not what this is, no beta we die like tim, not ship heavy, the slaughter interfering in all of melanie's relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:35:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/schrodingers_zombie/pseuds/schrodingers_zombie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a look at melanie king's relationships during the six-month period after the failed unknowing when the archivist is indefinitely detached from his archive and the slaughter sinks its teeth deeper into her heart</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain/Melanie King, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Melanie King/Helen Richardson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i am unruly in the stands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Trusting the thing that calls itself Helen is a bad idea, of course. But Melanie doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>trust </span>
  </em>
  <span>her; she’s not stupid. She just needs… someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>there.</span>
</em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It starts with Melanie just asking for help on a statement or two. Yes, she gets back to work like nothing’s happened: there’s not much else for her to do, and after just a few days of apathetic sitting around she begins to feel sick and restless. She’s not sure if it’s the Eye or her own mind desperate for a distraction, but it doesn’t make much of a difference.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway, doing her archival work is… definitely harder without anyone else working with her, even just to bounce ideas off of or to ease the monotony. Basira and Martin both spend all their time moping around in their respective corners, Basira locked in Jon’s office near constantly and Martin all but fading into the walls like he’s entirely lost the will to be present in this world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(It used to be funny, before everything got fucked, seeing Martin get all sad and emotional, clearly pining for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon</span>
  </em>
  <span> for some godforsaken reason. One time, Melanie had forgotten something in the building and had to return late at night, and she had seen him straight-up lying on the Archive kitchen floor crying to what she’s pretty sure was Taylor Swift, like something right out of a cheesy coming-of-age flick. But he doesn’t do that classic Blackwood dramatic nonsense anymore. No more weepy music at 12 am, no more tragic sighs and glaringly-obvious lovesick stares, probably no more of his cheesy poetry. He just… god, he just stands around. Listless. Blank. Sometimes he holds a mug of tea, but Melanie hasn’t seen him actually take a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sip</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not since… not since… yeah.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So sure, one day she half-unthinkingly asks Helen for her </span>
  <em>
    <span>expert</span>
  </em>
  <span> thoughts on whether a statement is a legitimate manifestation of the Spiral or just some nut making stuff up. And eventually that turns into a moment of hesitation before entering Helen’s hallways because Melanie needs to get across the country for some followup research and she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> spending the time and money on this and besides, Helen </span>
  <em>
    <span>offered</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Gradually the hesitation goes away, too, and using her door becomes as almost as natural as any other door. It’s not like Helen has any reason to… to eat Melanie, anyway, right? And if she changes her mind… Well, that’ll happen, then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turns out that’s not the kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>eating</span>
  </em>
  <span> Helen has in mind for Melanie, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So here they are now, pressed against each other on the Archives’ shitty break room sofa. That’s where they usually go, just out of the way but close enough to the Archive to feel almost like revenge for failing her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Helen is sharp, Melanie thinks, those knifelike hands tangled in her hair, the bitter taste of citrus and battery acid in her mouth. Not sharp in the same way that Melanie craves -- not sharp in the same way that Melanie </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- but all of her is sharp angles and terrible fractals and wrongness and it’s almost good enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> fun. Like, seriously, maybe this is fucked up of her, but despite the whole literal-manifestation-of-one-of-the-world’s-strongest-fears thing, the avatar thing is kinda hot. Or maybe that’s just something about the Spiral. Melanie’s not sure any of the other </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span> she’s met are anything like this. The Desolation, maybe, or the Hunt -- Daisy was never her type, but sure, she could see it. On the other hand, she can’t at all imagine anyone being sexually attracted to… to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or, god forbid, Elias. Fucking incomprehensible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it’s not the Distortion at all that’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>compelling</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe it’s whatever part of the original Helen is still in there. Maybe what’s left of her just knows exactly how to use all of that twisting unreality to its -- oh, fuck, to its absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>greatest</span>
  </em>
  <span> advantage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re distracted,” Helen says, pushing away from Melanie. She’s got that infuriatingly amused smile that she always does, stretching just a little too wide to fit on her face. She always looks like she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> something that Melanie doesn’t. Melanie can’t stand it. Too much like Beholding. “What could possibly be on your mind right now, Melanie dear?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Melanie growls and tries to lunge forward for another kiss. Helen holds her at arm’s length, though, keeping tantalizingly out of reach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, switching things up today, are we? No, I think you’re still the one that’ll be getting--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Helen</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Melanie threatens, and the Distortion settles her with a deep, long kiss. The knife-sharp of Helen’s hand runs up and down the back of Melanie’s neck, just lightly enough not to draw blood. She almost wants to press back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Helen is unreadable. Helen is always unreadable. It’s a damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>relief</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There's always that awful feeling of being </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span> by her, like she’s looking at Melanie and seeing her secrets instead of her skin, and Melanie hates it to the very core of her being. She doesn’t think she’ll ever stop despising the sensation of being looked at. Even since before joining the Institute, she’s hated it. But with Helen, at least it’s only </span>
  <em>
    <span>one way</span>
  </em>
  <span>. At least Melanie can’t see her in return, not past the shifting deception of a face that Helen presents to the world. Can focus instead only on the heat, the sweat, the dance, the drumming heartbeats, the pushing and pinning of body against body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melanie’s breaths and thoughts catch as Helen’s teeth graze the skin of her throat, as her hands continue to travel, dangerously casual and light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s not sure if she’s still kissing Helen right now, where that Cheshire cat smile is really pressed against her skin, if any part of Helen’s body is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> anywhere. That’s one of those </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There’s a whole lot of sensation with the Distortion. Most of it doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t matter; feels a lot better when you ignore that impossibility.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, what was she-- what was she thinking about? It’s hard to focus on anything but the feeling of Helen everywhere, all at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t talk much </span>
  <em>
    <span>during </span>
  </em>
  <span>these occasions aside from the rare and just as knife-sharp flirt or compliment. Afterwards and before, they will, of course. They talk for hours, sometimes. Helen draws out every ired comment or complaint Melanie has burning inside her, until she’s itching to do something, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fight</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it. Melanie knows why it’s there, of course. She can feel it coursing through her veins, the iron and steel pumping violent and angry in her blood. She’s not sure why, exactly, Helen is so interested in playing with that part of her. Maybe she just thinks it’s funny. Or perhaps she thinks it’s as hot as Melanie finds Helen’s twisting deceit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But in those moments, there’s no need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>encourage </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything in Melanie. Their bodies just… dance. And Melanie can </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- almost, but not quite -- forget where she’s trapped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It helps that those fucking tape recorders have stopped showing up, whether they were Jon or Elias. If she would see one -- god. If anyone is watching them, if anyone is somehow </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking</span>
  </em>
  <span> at this other than Helen or Melanie themselves, she would hate them more than she’s hated anyone before. She’d probably fucking kill them on the spot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Good thing nobody’s watching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She forces down the ever-present bitter rage and focuses back on Helen, Helen, Helen. Just Helen. For now, just Helen.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. i am a fist amidst the hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Melanie’s gotten sick of it, sick of seeing Basira lock herself in Jon’s office and let time waste away like it’s hopeless to even try. So she marches in there and tells her that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira’s hunched over a pathetic excuse for a lunch on the desk, staring at the sad tuna mayo sandwich like if she wishes hard enough it’ll turn into something better. Maybe into Daisy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie can’t help but snort in laughter at the thought of the ex-cop lying on the desk, all awkward-seductive </span>
  <em>
    <span>draw me like one of your Welsh girls</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And then she remembers where Daisy is, and the amusement hardens into a pit of frustrated fury.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” She repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” says Basira. “Eating?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie rolls her eyes, closing the door behind her even though there’s nobody around to keep out anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean--” She waves her hand. “What do you think all this is doing for </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You’re not-- you’re not-- this isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>helping</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who do you expect me to be able to help?” Basira straightens up, voice cool and even. That repression of hers has always been frustrating, but now it’s damn unbearable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not even trying,” Melanie says, and is painfully aware of how whiny she sounds. She tries again. “We’re both still here, aren’t we? And you’ve just… given up on everything. Like it was all for nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wasn’t it?” Basira sounds tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie’s hands curl into fists. Familiar crescent moons etch themselves into her palms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you give it a fucking rest?” She says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Sure. What are you trying to say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know there isn’t much we can do by ourselves. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that. Not big-picture, at least. I mean… I don’t even know where we’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>start</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not without Jon… </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowing</span>
  </em>
  <span> what needs to be done.” Melanie ignores Basira’s pointed sigh and pushes on. “But we can’t just sit here and… and waste away. God, Basira, aren’t you bored too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, actually, I wouldn’t describe any of this as </span>
  <em>
    <span>boring</span>
  </em>
  <span>--” Basira starts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I mean,” Melanie interrupts. “It’s exhausting. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausted</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just waiting around like we need someone to come back to tell us where to go next. Like we’re fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>helpless </span>
  </em>
  <span>without Jon here to give us something to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira’s expression tightens, and Melanie feels a spark of vindication at finally managing to draw out some kind of reaction from her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not true,” Basira says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>prove it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a second, Melanie thinks Basira will, thinks she’s going to surprise her and </span>
  <em>
    <span>move</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But she lets out a heavy sigh and settles back into the chair, eyes dropping back towards the scattered untouched files on the desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, there was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason</span>
  </em>
  <span> I started working here, and you know it’s not because I wanted to be here. And now it’s… no longer relevant. So I really don’t see the point in--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d rather just be fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stagnant?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Melanie breathes deep, hisses the air back out through her teeth. “I don’t give a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> about the Institute. I don’t care whatever Lukas wants, wherever he’s hiding, and I sure as hell don’t care what </span>
  <em>
    <span>Elias</span>
  </em>
  <span> thinks we should be doing. We’re still here -- thanks for that, by the way, glad to see your plan for </span>
  <em>
    <span>alternative ways of getting rid of him</span>
  </em>
  <span> worked out so </span>
  <em>
    <span>gosh darn effectively</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We didn’t know, okay, and be honest: neither did you,” Basira interjects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Fine. Whatever. I’m saying that I don’t want to do the fucking Eye’s work, as much as I can avoid it. But…” Melanie runs a hand through her hair, breathes deep once again. “But I can’t stand this </span>
  <em>
    <span>waiting</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I feel like if I keep staying still, I’m going to… to explode.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well. Not my job to stop that,” says Basira.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie laughs bitterly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No? I’m the wrong type of crazy? You’ve only got room in your heart to look out for one </span>
  <em>
    <span>bomb threat</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Basira growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You won’t do anything, won’t fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>move</span>
  </em>
  <span> for most of the day because without your rabid dog you can’t find a damn purpose. Like she’s the only thing in this world that’s ever mattered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop moping about your dead girlfriend and </span>
  <em>
    <span>do something</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s not my—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie leans in and shuts her up with a hard snarling kiss, pulling Basira’s head towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It lasts for a long moment, longer than she expected Basira to play along, until Melanie finally pulls away, heart beating staccato warbeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that enough to get over it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira just </span>
  <em>
    <span>huh</span>
  </em>
  <span>s softly in response, doesn’t even take the bait. Goddamn infuriating, she is, not even deigning to give Melanie the satisfaction of a real nice reaction to either the kiss or the taunts. But at least it looks like </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s changed: she’s looking at Melanie now, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>looking, like she’s suddenly fully awake and considering what it means that Melanie’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like she’s actually ready to listen now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what? You’re right. I’m sorry,” Basira says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Melanie says. “About the kiss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, uh… I’ve-- I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> been… I spent so many years fighting for this </span>
  <em>
    <span>one thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you know? And now it’s… now she’s gone, and I lost sight of what matters.” She sighs. “I failed her. We were a team, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>left her behind</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I can’t let that happen again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right, Melanie thinks. Always with that dramatic bullshit. Christ, why is everyone associated with the Magnus Institute -- herself included, she has to admit -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>like this</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Well, whatever gets her off her ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve let us become vulnerable. Sitting ducks,” Basira says, almost to herself. “Next time something comes looking to break in, how am I going to protect us? When Jon wakes up and we have to get back to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?” Melanie scoffs. “No, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>us. Jon’s not coming back. And if he does… Look, you didn’t see what happened to Sasha. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. You think we can </span>
  <em>
    <span>trust</span>
  </em>
  <span> whatever walks in here telling us it’s him? No fucking way. That’s going to be our biggest </span>
  <em>
    <span>threat</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wouldn’t hurt us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I know you’re too smart to believe that. He didn’t get out, Basira. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>in there</span>
  </em>
  <span> when it blew up. Whatever survived that isn’t human. It isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even if it used to be. You said it yourself: we have to be ready for </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span> comes next.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira doesn’t respond to that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know how to shoot a gun, right, Melanie?” She says instead, after a moment. “How to use weapons?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, a little,” Melanie answers guardedly. Cool, so she won’t directly acknowledge the fact that Jon’s probably a monster now, but at least she’s not arguing to embrace him back with open arms. “I’ve fired a gun before, yeah. And... I mean, I think I could find my way around a knife. Pointy end goes in the bastard attacking you, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira doesn’t laugh, just does that infuriatingly contemplative </span>
  <em>
    <span>huh</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing she does again. She’s curious. She’s coming up with some kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>plan</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Melanie recognizes that. Through the anger, Melanie </span>
  <em>
    <span>respects</span>
  </em>
  <span> that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could do with some training. After work sometimes, you can come with me and we can work on some things. Fighting techniques. Weapon use. We don’t know what could come after us, and...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Daisy’s not here anymore. Right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just to be clear, by training you mean...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>training</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Basira says harshly. Then she sighs and her voice softens. “You’re not her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie thinks of those wolfsharp teeth, of hungry relentless eyes and tireless vindictive pursuit and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>chase</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Thinks of the booming, dancing anger that burns heavy in her chest and fills her bones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m not,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’ll have to be enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie could be insulted by that. She really, really wants to be. Wants to get into a screaming, flying-fist dance of an argument or fight about it. But she </span>
  <em>
    <span>gets</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s not like Daisy; she doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be like Daisy. That feral bloodlust that made Daisy see herself as judge, jury, executioner, that brutal desire to hunt down anyone she determined was a monster, regardless of what they had actually done? That had never sat right with Melanie, and even now, with the rage humming through her stronger than it ever had, she doesn’t ever want to become that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she is willing -- no, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- to hurt anyone she needs to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s different, right? The urge to watch -- to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> the life and blood drain out of those who hurt her, stand in a sea of adrenaline and make them </span>
  <em>
    <span>suffer</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of course it’s not good, she knows that, but it’s not the same as what Daisy was doing. Melanie has always </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to fight, and she’s still fighting. It’s just that now, the fight has…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She forces her hands to relax, and swallows hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quiet for a long time, besides the thunder of her own heartbeat keeping time to a dance she can barely resist joining, until Melanie finally breaks the silence, changing the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you serious? Earlier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira looks at her with those piercing eyes, questioning, always curious, but not confused. She never looks confused. Like even when she doesn’t have all the information, she’s only a few steps away from figuring it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and Daisy never... you know, you never actually got together?” Melanie clarifies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Basira raises one eyebrow slightly, just the merest hint of surprise. “Not... not really. She didn’t— it was complicated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you wanted to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s complicated too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If she was still alive—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s not.” Basira’s voice hardens. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>We </span>
  </em>
  <span>are. You were right, Melanie. It’s time to stop </span>
  <em>
    <span>moping</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We need to be ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s funny; Melanie had come in here, honestly, hoping for either sex or a fight, but this weird… defense partnership thing works too, she supposes. At least it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My relationship with Daisy was about </span>
  <em>
    <span>trust</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I trusted her with my life. Can I trust you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie shrugs. “I guess you have to,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira hesitates, then leans forward, presses a fast kiss to Melanie’s forehead, like she’s unsure of how to go about intimacy but desperately needs it. It feels more like some kind of medieval fantasy kiss, a lady sending her knight off with a fierce kiss, Melanie thinks, rather more Romantic than romantic. That’s just like Basira, really. For all her cold analytical practicality, there’s always been something so fairytale about her. They don’t belong together, but god, it could have been fun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll drive you after we’re done here today,” Basira says. “Remember. Training. It’s just us now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll have to be enough,” Melanie echoes from earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira nods, sharp, serious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. See ya,” Melanie says and leaves Jon’s office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. That was unsatisfying in so many ways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She curls her hand into a fist again and feels the cracklecurrent heavy beat of anger pulse through her. She hopes Basira’s right, that something does come attack them at the Institute, now that they’re vulnerable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She needs something to hurt.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. i break it just because i can</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Sorry for, uh, ghosting you for so long,” Melanie says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s alright. I’m no stranger to hunting down ghosts,” Georgie says and offers Melanie a small smile. “It’s really good to see you again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You too,” Melanie responds. They lapse into a silence that stretches out just past natural and into awkward. Melanie begins to wonder if finally texting back and offering to grab lunch together was a mistake. She can’t make eye contact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, uh, Jon. How’s he doing? I haven’t gone back to see him since they--” Georgie stops herself before she can finish the sentence. “Since he got into the hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s fine, yeah.” Melanie says. “Wait, no. No, of course he’s not fine. He’s still in a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>coma</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if that’s what you want to know. Not dead yet, allegedly. Though if they tell me he’s woken up at some point, I’m not sure I’ll believe it. No way anybody survived that. No </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Tim didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know what you mean,” Georgie says softly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The awkward silence peeks its head round again, makes sure they’re doing alright and aren’t missing it too much. Melanie wishes she really </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> cut the tension with a knife like people say. That would be easier. She groans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, this is embarrassing. We can’t have a single conversation without it being about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> anymore?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no, we’re failing the Bechdel test,” Georgie says in mock horror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The bare fucking minimum of media representation! Not that it was really originally supposed to be some big feminist test, though. It was meant to highlight the sheer lack of </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--relatable media for queer women, especially lesbians, to see themselves in, yes. Come on, Melanie, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> you don’t have to explain that to me,” Georgie finishes for her, but she’s laughing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, sorry for </span>
  <em>
    <span>dykesplaining</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Melanie snorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what happens when you spend too much time in academia, you infodumping nerd,” Georgie says. She rests her chin on her hand and sighs. “God, I missed this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I missed you too,” Melanie says. Her heart’s pounding for a different reason than it has been lately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Georgie leans forward, studying her intently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You look different,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melanie blushes. “Yeah, I-- I changed my hair. Needed something new.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s not that. I mean, it does look awesome, but… there’s something else. Your face. Your eyes. You look… I think it’s that place you work at. Jon’s institute. I don’t think you should be--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there it is. That gnawing, pounding, wailing frustration in her bones, the fury kindling deep in her stomach, as soon as he’s mentioned again. Melanie’s nerves spark and she pushes back, leans away from the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well. Did go through some pretty fucked up traumatizing shit recently, in case you forgot,” she spits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay? I don’t know why you’re reacting like that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t like that place just as much as me. You don’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>defend</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not defending it! I just--” Melanie breathes, deep. Again. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> there, Georgie. You have no fucking clue what it’s like. There’s absolutely nothing I can do and it’s so-- so </span>
  <em>
    <span>infuriating</span>
  </em>
  <span> when people act like I’m not trying hard enough. Like it’s my </span>
  <em>
    <span>fault</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not what I said,” Georgie says. Melanie knows Georgie’s right, knows she’s not being fair. Doesn’t much care. “I’ve seen Jon go through this too, I know what working there </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> to people and I just don’t want--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melanie interrupts her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. I hate being trapped there. I hate not being able to change anything. And I know being there isn’t good for me, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowing</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t fucking do anything, does it? I’m goddamn sick of </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve gotten so angry,” Georgie says, and she sounds annoyed too. “I don’t know if it’s the trauma, or the… evil god monsters, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I’m not equipped nor should I be </span>
  <em>
    <span>expected</span>
  </em>
  <span> to deal with your issues </span>
  <em>
    <span>for </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, cut the crap. You’re not a goddamn psychologist, Georgie, you’re a second-rate </span>
  <em>
    <span>podcaster</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe it’s none of those! Maybe I’m just </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because things fucking suck and they always have!” Her fists are curled tight, fingernails digging into her palms. “I’m not asking you to deal with </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I just wanted to talk because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>miss you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you’re the one who’s trying to fucking fix me because who I am is never fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>good enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’m always too angry, too loud, too </span>
  <em>
    <span>crazy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Need to shut the fuck up and sit down. Why the fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> I be angry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You and Jon both, you’re so--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Both so </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Melanie snarls. Her heart beats staccato in her ears and she feels like everybody’s staring. God, they probably are. She hates them for it. Voyeuristic asses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Georgie doesn’t answer that, doesn’t finish her thought. She leans back, mirrors Melanie’s closed-off arms-crossed posture.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not telling you not to be angry, Melanie. I’m angry too, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that. But if there’s some reason you’re angry at </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I don’t understand it. So either tell me, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I don’t think it’s fair of you to put that all on me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s not fair is that I’m still </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I went to the Magnus Institute because </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> told me that oh, I can tell them my story, it might </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And now I’m stuck here. And, and maybe I could have done something if I-- but no, they said this would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>smarter</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so Elias is still alive, sitting smug and breathing and watching us all from his cell. God, I wish I had slit his fucking throat while I had the chance--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse me, you did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>just blame me for you working there,” Georgie seethes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melanie feels lightheaded, exhilarated. Clearer than she has in weeks. Months.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe I did,” she says, and laughs, high and strangled. “Maybe it is your fault. Or maybe it’s Jon’s. Or Elias’s. Or maybe it’s my own fucking fault, and I just can’t admit that the reason all this is happening to me is that everyone was right and I can’t--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop,” Georgie interrupts. “This is what I </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Melanie. I care about you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I can’t take this for you. I’ve got my own shit-- I want to be there for you, I really do, but I won’t be your therapist. You need someone to talk about all this with, I get it, but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> be me. God, Melanie, please tell me you understand that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melanie’s face is buzzing. She tastes blood. Before she can think better of it, she lunges forward, clambers half on the table to get close to Georgie, stops just short of touching her. Let her bridge the gap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kiss me,” she begs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The screech of Georgie’s chair fills the air like an emergency siren as she pushes away, looking at Melanie with shock and that heart-rending pitying </span>
  <em>
    <span>disappointment</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the hell?” she says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Melanie says, breathing heavily. “I thought we-- I miss you. I miss you so much. Can’t we-- Georgie, let’s go, let’s go right now, we can get to my flat or…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We were just fighting. We were </span>
  <em>
    <span>screaming</span>
  </em>
  <span> at each other,” Georgie says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” says Melanie. “I want this. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> that--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t. Not like this.” Georgie cuts her off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a painful moment of quiet, and then Georgie gets up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not going to tell you to calm down. You have the right to feel whatever you feel, and that would be immensely shitty of me. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>do this to me.” She looks at Melanie for a long moment. “Bye, Melanie. I really hope you find what you need. See you later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turns to leave. Slowly, hesitantly, like she’s waiting for Melanie to stop her, like she’s hoping it’ll all get better over the next few seconds. Of course it won’t. Of course it doesn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melanie doesn’t move until Georgie’s out the door and out of sight.  She should have apologized. She should have done something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” she says to a kid at the next table over who’s doing a much worse job of hiding his ogling than the adults surrounding him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of her hates Georgie for leaving. A larger part of her hates herself for driving Georgie off with that stupid, stupid kiss -- what was she </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span>? A third, tiny, gleefully masochistic part of her is glad it happened, glad it proved her right: that nobody is there for her but her anger. Like it’s always been. She can deal with that, can’t she? She can thrive like that. That’s how she </span>
  <em>
    <span>works</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right, she tells herself. It’s better like this. Nobody to hold her back. Nobody to stop her or tell her to </span>
  <em>
    <span>calm down</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>. This is the way it should be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then why does she still feel so fucking lost? Why does she feel so desperately and completely alone?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>God, this sucks.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>